


Thalassophobia

by The_Freedom_Roadblocks



Series: Thalassophobia [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aquaphobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mugging, Sexual Harassment, Vigilantism, Violence, super hero AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Freedom_Roadblocks/pseuds/The_Freedom_Roadblocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I tried to rescue you from being mugged but instead I got knocked out and you had to take me to the hospital after having your wallet stolen" AU for Enjoltaire from Les Mis.</p><p>Enjolras roams the streets as the 'Avenging Angel' and Grantaire is tormented by visions of other worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thalassophobia

**Author's Note:**

> (Posted from my Tumblr)
> 
> I wanted to do something lighthearted and funny—it ended up not particularly… lighthearted.  
> So Superhero AU! 
> 
> Warnings for sexual harassment, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, strong language and bad jokes.

“Is this supposed to be a mugging?” Enjolras folded his arms. “Because you know who I am, right?”

The mugger’s fingers clenched tighter around the bat. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Empty your pockets and then lie face down on the ground. Because I can bash your head in.”

“Violence doesn’t solve anything,” Enjolras held out his hands, placating. “It only escalates into more violence—”

“Shut. Up!” The man stepped forward, bat brandished and Enjolras took a hasty step back. “I need fucking money. I can’t—fucking fuck—I can’t do this anymore. I need fucking money. Shit! Go face the wall—face the fucking wall.”

“I don’t want to hurt you—oof,“ The man swung the bat in a wide arc. It hit Enjolras’ stomach and forced the air out of his lungs. He was gasping for breath as the man shoved him against the wall; his cheek scraped the damp bricks and his arms were pinned, curled around his stomach. He let his shoulders droop and his breathing become desperate and shallow, I am weak, I am scared, I am pathetic. 

He felt the man’s hands slide into his pockets, back and front, it was sickening to feel rough hands forcing their way through his clothes, brush against his skin, and pull out his phone, his wallet, his metro ticket… even the crappy drawing Combeferre had given him of a cow’s four stomachs (“the Ruman’s connected to the… reticulum~”). He clenched his teeth. He needed to be patient only a moment a longer, one more moment and the mugger will turn to make his escape. His guard will be down and his all thoughts directed to getting away from Enjolras fast, very fast. Enjolras will turn and kick his shins, the mugger will fall to the ground and Enjolras will press his hand to the back of his neck, an inch away from the brain stem, immobilising him. 

There lies Enjolras’ power, the strength behind the mask, his beacon of light: he can slither into another person’s brain and play electrical pin ball. A zap here and zap there. Tip the scales. It was not an exact science; hit the right spot and they are temporally paralysed. A little to the left and they have got a one ticket to the psych ward. 

Either way he’d ask the mugger: is it for family? Is it drugs? Either way he’d call the police and he’d be sprinting off to visit another mother, brother, son, daughter, dragged through the mud, his wallet open, or another alleyway, another drug dealer and another endless fight on dirty streets.

The muggers hands shook as they slid up under Enjolras’ shirt.

“There’s no money up there, mate,” he whispered. The mugger grabbed a fistful of his hair and—oh god, fuck—smacked his head against the bricks. The impact barely bruised Enjolras but it was more than skin deep. The mugger liked power. He was in control right now and Enjolras would let him have his moment, however reluctantly and however brief.

“Hurry up with it,” said Enjolras. There was a hand on his thigh. His body jerked, panic, he couldn’t move and he couldn’t get to the man’s neck. Control. I am not helpless, I am not helpless, he’ll turn around any moment now.

Finally the mugger let him go. This was it. This was it.

*

Grantaire was walking home from the swimming pool. His hair was still uncomfortably damp and he could smell chlorine wafting up through the collar of his shirt. He couldn’t shake feeling like something was crawling up the back of his shirt. For most people the pool was not a traumatising experience, it was pleasant even, but the thing was Grantaire was very afraid of water. Not bathtub, shower-head, kiddypool water, but deep water, oceans stretching out for miles and miles, water as deep and black as tar, dark sucking abysses, falling falling falling. He had been told that it—‘it’ being described as Thalassophobia, fear of oceans, or Bathophobia, fear of large spaces, two very unusual names—was very normal and yet somehow that never made him feel any better about it. It didn’t matter if his feet were only three centimetres from the the bottom, as soon as he was out of depth he saw a bottomless chasm opening up beneath his feet. Queue panic, fear, panic and more fear.

Perhaps this had something to do with the visions. Not your standard crazy person visions, rather a higher brand of vision, they were trans dimensional visions. Best described as like looking through a one way window, you can see the fucked up shit happening on the other side but not touch it, only a thin sheet of glass between him and creatures that would probably like to suck out your eyeballs.

Water on the other hand was a different story. Water was the juice of life. In water there were portals, in water his nightmares came to life. 

So why in the world did he go swimming? Well water had to be of a certain constitution to create a portal and pool water just didn’t cut it. Grantaire was learning to control his fear, swimming with it in a very intimate sense. His visions weren’t that often and his terror drove them out of control. They were triggered by dropping water, the kettle boiling, the pipes gurgling and he would wander, mind vanished for hours, days before waking up alone and cold half way across the city, the state, the country. Once he blinked back to himself in a Mexican casino as he dragged a pile of chips towards his quarter of a poker table. The men around him had all been Malaysian business men, who had been rather offended when he excused himself with his winnings. The waitress had told him he had gambled at that table all night, speaking cantonese and drinking gin and tonic. Grantaire did not speak cantonese. He did not even like gin and tonic. 

Harness his fear. 

Harness fear.

 

Off Main St there were a number of small alleyways that provided access to back doors and loading bays. Grantaire generally didn’t look down them, seeing as they were usually filled with rotten garbage or mangy bartenders out for a smoke, but his attention was captured by faint but harsh breathing. Instinctively he knew not to look, another vision, another nightmare, but having just comeback from a Face-Your-Fucking-Fears pep talk delivered by Bahorel, he turned his head. What he saw was not a Grimm’s fairytale from Mars but rather unfortunately human. 

A man had a another guy’s face smushed against a wall, his hands all over the other guy like he was a blow up doll or something. Grantaire watched as the man cracked the other guys head against the bricks. It was disgusting. He had watched monsters, ten meter long centipedes rape and butcher people worlds away, and yet here at home humans treated each other no better. 

Grantaire jumped forward, his fists were clenched and ready, he was going to punch the shit out of this guy. The man started to turn away from his victim, Grantaire wasn’t quite close enough and the man had already grabbed a bat off the ground.

Shit.

The man screeched and smacked Grantaire over the head with the bat. Pain bloomed, stars twinkled, blackness ensued. Grantaire found himself lying on his back, his hand resting in something sticky. A blond angel was standing over him.

“Angel… What an anti-climatic way to die,” Grantaire sighed. “I’ve seen so much death. Being ripped apart from the inside, blood boiling with poison, one’s own severed limbs shoved down their throat in suffocation. been there, seen that. Never did i think I would go out like this…”

“What?” said the Angel. It seemed like a rather inelegant word to be used by an Angel.

“Am I going to heaven?” he asked because it seemed like the most pressing matter. The Angel frowned.

“I don’t believe in heaven,” they said. And, of course, Grantaire would get the crazy angel to be his heavenly guide.

His lips twitched. “Well that is unfortunate considering your job,” he pointed out.

“You recognised me?” They beamed. “About time someone did.”

“Yeah, the flowing hair, grecian features, general glow of beauty. Naturally, I recognise you.”

“So you are a fan?”

“I’m not religious or anything—I suppose I should keep that to myself—but I guess I worship beauty?” he smiled, though his smile grew weaker. “And the whole ferrying lost souls between worlds thing is pretty cool too.”

“I wouldn’t put it so poetically,” the Angel brushed a stray hair from their face. “But I’m glad you understand the need to help the, uh, lost souls.”

“Heaven isn’t so bad after all,” Grantaire murmured. “Except there is something sticky on my hand. Can we hurry it up? I am so tired.”

“I’m taking you to hospital.” Grantaire became aware that he was being lifted off the ground. The Angel’s arms were strong and steady. Their fingers brushed the back of his neck. 

“Rest your mind,” the angel said.

“Is there a hospital in the afterlife? Because I thought there wasn’t a whole lot of need for health care over there—mm that feels nice, god, I would have died earlier if I’d known it’ll feel so…. good…“

 

Grantaire returned to himself somewhere between being poked in the left eye by a doctor (“Sorry, sorry, boy! it’s getting to that time of night—oh boy, enjolras—enjolras was it?—this kid is really out of it.”) and having an ice pack pressed against his forehead. His angel was standing next to him, a frown fixed to his face. He was looking significantly less angelic, with a bruised forehead and rumpled clothing—in fact his angel appeared to be a mere mortal rather than a glorious celestial being. Yet, it subtracted little from his beauty. Grantaire groaned.  
 “My name is Enjolras,” he leaned in to whisper into Grantaire’s ear. He felt his breath tickle his throat.

“Grantaire,” said Grantaire and the doctor startled.

“Yes, that is your name. You’re going to be fine,” the doctor told him. “A little bump to the noggin, no fractures or anything, it happens to us all.” He turned to Enjolras. “Make sure your boyfriend doesn’t sleep for another few hours, give him plenty of water and rest, make sure he doesn’t try and move too much or do anything strenuous.” his voice lowered. “And when I say strenuous I mean—“

“I get it,” said Enjolras hastily.

 

They were walking across the parking lot when Grantaire finally worked up the courage to say, “Wait—boyfriend?”

“That was your fault,” said Enjolras. “I put you out as best as I could but you kept babbling about angels and beauty and salvation. I was very embarrassed.” 

“Well, I’m sorry. Me and my big unconscious mouth,” Grantaire adjusted the ice pack on his head. “What do you mean you put me out? Did you drug me or something? Should I been inching away from you slowly?”

“It’s my super power. I can get into people heads,” He sighed. “I know I didn’t ask your permission, I just slipped inside you head and tried to ease the pain a bit.”

“So you did drug me.”

“I’m sorry,” he was walking very stiffly. Walking where, Grantaire was unsure. They seemed to be leaving the hospital but neither of them had indicated a direction they should be going. Enjolras kept huffing in the silence. It was very annoying.

“What is it?” Grantaire asked him.

“Just— what were you thinking? With the mugger, I had the situation under control. I was going to hand him over to the police and now he’s gone…” Enjolras looked away. “He has my wallet.”

“Better your wallet than your head,” said Grantaire. It didn’t seem to cheer Enjolras up as much as Grantaire intended. “Look, I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” Enjolras offered him a weak smile. It was enough.

“So you invade people’s minds?” Grantaire asked.

“I suppose you can put it like that,” Enjolras wrinkled his nose and Grantaire’s stomach bunny hopped into his throat. “It’s not at all glamorous, it can go horribly wrong. And I see things too—you don’t want to ever see someone’s darkest thoughts, fantasies… the things people think when they’e alone… and then you have such beautiful things stored up inside their heads like a treasure trove.”

“Oh,” Grantaire looked up at the sky, dark and sickly orange, city lights whipped out the stars. “I see things too.”

“In people’s heads?” he could see Enjolras had turned to him out of the corner of his eye.

“I see across dimensions. Chaos, blood, teeth and bone. The world burnt a thousand times. I see it all like it’s a movie. But it’s not. It’s real.”

Silence.

“But you see the good things too?”

An earth made of crystal, women dressed in glimmering diamond skirts, shallow oceans and long beaches, rainbow feathered birds, green and brown creatures—humans?—kissing, touching, love and beauty, a world united. Even in the darkest realities he saw sacrifice and love, strength and life. He closed his eyes and breathed out.

“Somehow it makes all the bad hurt more.” A single moment passed them, glinting in the streetlights, then Grantaire felt Enjolras’ arm wrapped around his shoulders. Warm. Safe…

“You’re not trying to do your mind voodoo, right?” Grantaire asked.

“I need to be touching your neck with my skin,” Enjolras said. “You’re not alone, you must realise. I have friends who can help, who would love to meet you.”

“I have it under control,” said Grantaire. His heart was beating fast.

“I would like you to see you again anyway.” Enjolras was breathing fast, too.

“You would? After I lost your wallet?”

He laughed, his voice trembled, “Of course. You called me an angel?”

“I thought you had come to take me to heaven.”

“And I didn’t believe in heaven,” they shared a grin. “I thought you recognised me, you know, as a street vigilante and all that.”

“Do you have a code name? please tell me there’s a code name? I’m guessing Justice-Man—no—Night-Fury? The Peacekeeper?—wait, that’s taken—The Improbably Beautiful Man?”

“L’ange de la vengeance.”

“That’s your name? Avenging Angel? Seriously?”

Enjolras smiled. “I didn’t pick it.”

“Who did?—don’t just smile!—who picked your lame-ass name?”

“You’ll have to sick around to find out,” Enjolras pulled him closer. Thumb brushed against his neck. “Call me a cab, would you? You did lose my phone and wallet.”

“And I suppose I have to give you money too.”

They sat down on the side of the road while Grantaire called the cab company. Enjolras’ hand was resting on his knee. Was it intentional? Grantaire’s stomach was fluttering, it had been a long time since he had wanted someone so desperately, wanted a stranger. After Enjolras left, Grantaire walked home, the city lights twinkled and the shadows roamed the streets. Admit the darkness the world had grown a bit brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda want to write more in this AU. Hope you enjoyed it folks. I believe my writing style involves throwing around commas like rice at a wedding. But, like, one of those modern weddings where no one throws rice except an old lady with some kind of stuffed bird as the main decretive statement on her hat. I am that lady.


End file.
